


Cocaine Withdrawal

by Loopy456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loopy456/pseuds/Loopy456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘I want you out, Sherlock,’ John says quietly. He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t rant. Sherlock would rather that he did. Anything would be preferable to this blank disappointment.</i>
</p><p>Post Reichenbach, Sherlock starts taking cocaine again. John refuses to see him until he's clean.</p><p>
  <b>Written for a prompt on Kink Meme.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocaine Withdrawal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Kink Meme:
> 
> _Sherlock returns from the dead and John forgives him, even considers moving back in or does so. That is until John finds out that Sherlock is using cocaine again, and quite a lot of it._
> 
> _John tells Sherlock not to talk to him again unless he's clean._
> 
> Obviously, lots of mentions of drug abuse. Don't read if that will be troubling for you.

John’s not an idiot, despite what Sherlock says. He doesn’t know how Sherlock expects to hide this from him. Maybe that makes Sherlock the idiot, but he doesn’t say so. What he does say, however, leaves very little open to interpretation.

‘I want you out, Sherlock,’ he says quietly. He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t rant. Sherlock would rather that he did. Anything would be preferable to this blank disappointment.

Sherlock does the only thing he can think of. He plays dumb. He should have known it wouldn’t work.

‘Out?’ he says, sounding so casual that anyone other than John might fall for it. ‘I don’t understand. Why?’

‘You know very well why,’ John’s gaze, like his hand, is steady. ‘I will not sit back and watch you destroy yourself. It’s all very well claiming you know the risks and that you could stop at any time. You’ll kill yourself. And I won’t have it.’

‘I could stop at any time,’ Sherlock mumbles.

‘Well then prove it,’ John might sound triumphant if he wasn’t so deadly serious. He knows Sherlock can’t resist a challenge. ‘Get out of here. Go to Mycroft’s. Go to a hotel. I don’t care, really. But just go. I can’t stand it a second longer.’

‘But John…’ he knows it’s no good, but he tries anyway.

‘No Sherlock,’ John interrupts him. He is still calm, the very picture of reason. Sherlock hates him for it. He can’t rant and rave at someone who looks so in control of themselves, someone who has clearly thought out every possible argument and come to the conclusion that what he is doing is the right way. Perhaps it’s the only way.

Sherlock has one more card to play. He knows it’s low and cheap and dirty and underhand and he despises himself for it, but he has to.

‘But I’m back,’ he says in a small voice. ‘And you were so happy to see me, once you got over the shock and the homicidal rage, obviously. But you were so glad that I was here and now you want me to leave again.’

Perhaps all he wanted was a reaction. He doesn’t get one.

‘Yes,’ John agrees calmly. ‘And that is precisely why you have to go now. Because if I come home from the hospital in a week or a month and find you OD’d on the floor, I’ll wish that you had died when you jumped off the roof, so I wouldn’t have to mourn you for a second time.’

He gets it, he really does. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

‘Can I… can I come and visit?’ he asks hesitantly. He hates this, this weakness in depending on someone else. But John Watson isn’t just anyone. In fact, there’s no-one else he’d do this for.

‘No,’ John says softly. ‘Not until you’re clean, properly clean. I don’t just mean you haven’t dosed yourself up in the last 48 hours, I mean gone through withdrawal and 100% free of that bloody poison. And,’ he holds up his hand, ‘I know exactly how much of that rubbish you’ve been pumping into your body, so don’t try and fool me. I don’t want to hear a word from you – not a text, not an email, not a message via a homeless person, nothing – until you’re clean.’

‘Can I work cases?’ asks Sherlock, and immediately scowls inwardly to himself. Since when did he need John’s permission to do anything?

‘If you think you can deal with it,’ John shrugs. ‘Not my call. But you are not to use this as an excuse to take your temper out on all and sundry.’

‘Really John,’ Sherlock’s smile is faint and barely there. ‘Do you imagine I can’t deal with this?’

‘I think anyone stupid enough to get himself addicted to cocaine might not be clever enough to see the consequences,’ John states.

Sherlock laughs, actually laughs. Him, stupid? 

‘Of course I know the consequences,’ he scoffs. ‘Cocaine is a stimulant which acts on the serotonin, noradrenaline and dopamine pathways in the brain, being able to enter this organ due to its astounding ability to cross the blood-brain barrier. Addiction occurs via the mesolimbic pathway and can induce psychosis, lethargy, depression, physiological damage, hyperthermia and tachycardia among other things. The drug itself is a crystalline tropane alkaloid taken from the leaves of the coca plant, hence the name cocaine. Incidentally, there are four types of coca plant, all in the Erythroxylaceae family, and as the cocaine content in each leaf is low, there are complex procedures to be carried out before the drug is ready for use. Shall I continue and outline these processes for you?’

John is just looking at him sadly.

‘Bye, Sherlock,’ he says, crossing to the door and holding it open. ‘I’ll see you in a while.’

‘You’re really doing this?’ Sherlock is a little perplexed. ‘You really don’t want to see me until I’m clean?’

‘Nope,’ John pops his lips a little at the end of the word. He’s trying to put himself at ease, Sherlock knows. He’s still trying to convince himself that this is positively, definitely, 100% the right thing to do. Sherlock knows that he’s wobbling. He probably could be convinced to let Sherlock stay, even if he would insist on the cocaine going.

For once in his life, Sherlock doesn’t push. He jumped off a building for John. Stopping taking a psychoactive drug will be a doddle.

***

He won’t go to Mycroft for help, he just won’t. Having to rely on Mycroft while he was dead was bad enough, but that was out of absolute necessity. Asking for assistance that cannot be solely provided by his brother is unthinkable.

Sherlock leaves 221b that evening and checks himself into a hotel. Thankfully, the girl at the desk barely blinks at him, although the odds are that she recognises him and he sees easily enough in her eyes that she does. His resurrection hadn’t exactly gone unnoticed by London at large. He’d despised that, in those first few weeks. All he wanted was to get back to normal, to be able to start solving crimes again and giving his brain a proper workout, but that was hard to achieve with a gaggle of journalists tracking his every move and shouting inane questions at him wherever he went. 

John had been invaluable during that time. Of course, he’d been angry for the first few days, before Sherlock’s miraculous survival had been revealed to the press. He’d been angrier than Sherlock had ever seen anyone, and Sherlock had never felt such rage before, unless you counted the rage he’d felt towards himself for letting John grieve so thoroughly, for letting John become so broken and downtrodden and weary of life.

Sherlock had known that John had mourned him, obviously. He hadn’t need Mycroft’s almost constant updates to tell him that, but he was grateful all the same. What Sherlock hadn’t known, what his immense brain had somehow overlooked, was how much John would suffer. He’d seen it all in John’s eyes once he had returned and, for the first time in a long time, he’d almost lost control of his body and vomited with the pain and guilt of it all. 

But, after the yelling and the punching and the crying and the explanations and the apologies, things had got better. They had got better a lot more quickly than Sherlock had any right to expect. Back in 221b, he’d seen the lights come back on in John’s eyes, the colour come back into his cheeks and his back straighten again. Sherlock had put those things there in the first place, way back in 2010, and then taken them away after his death. Putting them back after his return was only to be expected, but what he hadn’t foreseen was the reversal of these changes once John had realised just what Sherlock was using to stimulate his brain in the duller moments. It hadn’t taken him long – he was a doctor, of course – and that hadn’t surprised Sherlock. What had surprised him was John’s reaction. John knew he’d taken drugs in the past. It shouldn’t have bothered him that much. But, for whatever reason, it did, and so here Sherlock is, sat on his crumby little bed in this crumby little hotel, hating the world.

‘I’m not an addict,’ he mutters to himself crossly. ‘Bloody John Watson. I am not an addict.’

His reflection scowls at him from the mirror opposite the bed.

‘I’m not,’ he insists. ‘Addicts need a hit just to get through the day. I’ve only been using because Lestrade still refuses to let me in on any of his cases, even the ones he doesn’t have a flipping clue about. It’s childish, simply petty childishness.’

His reflection continues to look petulant.

‘I just need something for my brain,’ Sherlock persists. ‘Otherwise it stagnates and rots. I am not an addict. I can quite easily get by as long as I have something to work on. So there.’

Confusingly, the Sherlock in the mirror does not appear to be satisfied by this excellent explanation, so Sherlock throws himself back onto the bed to avoid staring any longer.

Eventually tiring of glowering at the ceiling, he rolls across the bed and grabs for his laptop. When he finds that he cannot reach without getting up, he opens his mouth to call for John before checking himself. No John. Right.

Cases have been thin on the ground since Sherlock’s return. With the Met avoiding him at almost any cost, things might have been slow anyway, but people don’t seem to be as willing to message him on his website following what has come to be referred to in the media as The Fall. Staring at his website moodily, Sherlock finds this incomprehensible. It’s not like his abilities as a detective have been somehow compromised by previous incidents. People are so irrational.

Of course, this dearth of cases is what has led to his all too frequent forays into stimulation of a more chemical kind. Sherlock frowns. Perhaps it is merely the regularity with which he has been indulging which has upset John. But no, that’s not right. Sherlock had honestly listened to most of what John had said, back at the flat, he just wasn’t entirely sure it had all sunk in yet.

Sherlock racks his brains.

‘I don’t want to come back and find you OD’d on the floor,’ John had said. And then something about him dying, of an overdose presumably. Sherlock snorts. Part-time users, especially clever ones like him who know exactly what they’re doing to their bodies, do not overdose. Addicts overdose. Junkies overdose. Sherlock Holmes does not overdose.

Sighing at the lack of any potential brain exercise on his website, he snaps the laptop shut moodily and resists the temptation to fling it across the room. No John to pick up the pieces, he reminds himself.

Three hours later, he is still in exactly the same position, laptop resting on his chest where he hasn’t bothered to move it. Its dinner time, but he’s not hungry. However, he is starting to feel something pull at his insides. He sits up, intrigued, and dislodges the laptop. He’s definitely not hungry, but then what else could this strange, gnawing sensation within him be attributed to? He mentally counts back to his last meal. He is positive he ate half a sandwich yesterday evening, so hunger is ruled out for good. Sherlock starts running through his activities over the last 48 hours, trying to pin down his symptoms. If only John were here, he would know the cause in a second. Tea this morning, two hours and sixteen minutes of sleep last night, half a ham sandwich the previous evening, spent the afternoon lying on the sofa having returned from… He suddenly shoots bolt upright.

‘Oh,’ says Sherlock. ‘Oh.’

***

John hates to throw Sherlock out, he really does. In fact, it kills him a little inside but he can see no other way. He knows what cocaine addicts look like, and they look like Sherlock Holmes does right now. John can see what the greatest detective of them all cannot see, and that is that his best friend, returned to him from the dead, is addicted to a substance that could kill him just as easily as John himself could, and far more painfully.

So John does it, because he has to. He sees the confusion and the betrayal on Sherlock’s face and he nearly, so nearly caves. But Sherlock decides not to be contrary for once, and leaves. And as much as John is relieved, he’s a little hurt. Doesn’t Sherlock want to stay with him? Perhaps he’s been looking for a way to leave? Their life hasn’t exactly been exciting for the past couple of months, unless you count trying to avoid the paparazzi as much as possible, which John knows neither of them does. As soon as these thoughts have entered his head, John shakes himself as if he can physically remove them. Only one of them has the right to feel rejected in this scenario, and it’s not John.

‘This is what you wanted,’ he tells himself sternly. ‘Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Get a grip.’

He should be enjoying his life. During the time Sherlock was… away, John got himself a job at the A&E department of the University College Hospital, which he enjoys. It’s better than GP work, anyway. Now that Sherlock’s back, John’s life should be perfect. He has a job he loves and his best friend, who he loves even more (if not in the manner that the papers have been not-so-subtly implying of late), is alive again. There is just a dark, cocaine shaped cloud hanging over Baker Street.

When John goes to bed that night, he lies awake for far longer than he normally does, feeling guiltier than he should.

‘It’s for his own good, it’s for his own good, it’s for his own good,’ he chants to himself, setting up a rhythm like a train gathering speed over tracks.

Suddenly, something stops these repetitive thoughts dead.

‘Oh God, I hope he can do it,’ John speaks out loud. 

Sherlock is no fool, and he’s one of the most single-minded, determined people John’s ever met, but he knows that Sherlock is underestimating his dependence on the drug. Sherlock cannot conceive that he could possible end up dependent on anything or anyone, although John knows full well that this is not true. He and Sherlock are fully dependent on each other, for different reasons, yes, but neither one is less valid.

‘If you can’t do it for yourself, if you can’t see, you great stubborn git,’ John almost smiles into the darkness. ‘If you can’t do it for yourself, at least do it for me, Sherlock. You know that I need you. You’re my best friend, and I won’t survive losing you again.’

***

‘Only for you, John,’ Sherlock speaks through gritted teeth. He is curled up on his side in bed with his stomach cramping hideously. ‘How on Earth do you manage to induce in me this irrational want to please you? It will be the death of me.’

He laughs at the irony of that last sentence. Of course, John would say that he’s trying to save Sherlock from that very thing. If Sherlock were being fair, he may admit that John has a point.

‘You idiot, Sherlock Holmes,’ he groans. ‘You utter, utter idiot. What a fool. Letting yourself do something as mundane and boring as get addicted to an unimportant drug.’

Cocaine, he thinks sneeringly. It’s not even interesting. Hundreds of teenagers, students and disillusioned adults take it every single day. Surely if Sherlock, with his extraordinary mind, were going to become dependent on some substance, he’d choose something remarkable. That would be much more fitting. But apparently not. Apparently, if his mind cannot mull over the challenging and the bizarre, it will instead revel in the most mundane and predictable. What a disappointment.

‘Right,’ Sherlock announces to the room at large, ignoring the agitation within him. ‘This is what is going to happen. I am going to stop taking cocaine. It cannot be difficult. It’s a simple case of mind over matter, and that is my speciality. I will stop taking this ridiculous and clichéd drug, prove to John that I can do it, and then everything will be alright again. It will only take a matter of days.’

He forces himself to sit up and observe himself in the mirror.

‘What’s hard about that?’ he asks his reflection, choosing not to notice when it looks singularly unimpressed with this particular plan.

***

What’s hard about that, it turns out, is everything. Sherlock is not used to being wrong, and this has not been a good place to start. What his brain tells him should be easy his body is rebelling against in the strongest possible manner. 

After a brief trip out on his first morning, he hasn’t left the hotel since he checked in a week ago. He knows that Mycroft will be watching and he just won’t give his brother the damn satisfaction.

‘Urgh,’ Sherlock groans. ‘Urgh, urgh, urgh. You idiot. You complete idiot.’

He rolls out of bed to carry out his now familiar morning routine of trying to drown himself in the shower before, still reluctantly after seven days, eating breakfast. Unhappily, his appetite has increased exponentially in this short period of time, and so he has been calling for room service with increasing regularity. The staff of the hotel must be more than a little perplexed, but Sherlock’s paying them for their troubles and he doesn’t care enough to worry unduly about what they might think.

‘Right,’ Sherlock mutters to himself, with his little routine completed and three new banana skins in the bin under the desk. ‘Right. What today?’

The most important thing for him is, clearly, keeping his brain occupied. Aside from what his body is telling him, he hasn’t actually felt the need to take any more cocaine, and this is down to the mental exercise he is rigorously engaging in.

Sherlock sits down at his desk and pulls his laptop towards him, powering it up with a prod.

‘What today, what today?’ he drums his fingers on the desk impatiently, before opening up several of the many webpages he has bookmarked in the last few days and considering, his head on one side. ‘The Marfa lights? Dull. Car headlights. Next. The Roanake Colony. Dull. Merged with nearby tribes. How else would those tribes understand English and Christianity all those years later? And how can people not see the obvious? Jack the Ripper. Predictable. Boring. Stupid. Scotland Yard were just as ridiculous in the 19th Century as they are now. The _Mary Celeste_ ,’ Sherlock pauses for a second and tips his head to the other side. ‘Hmm. Possibilities here. An undeniable puzzle. Shame they never identified those bodies they found in the lifeboats, although of course one cannot assume that identification would be positive. And there is, of course, the matter of the other bodies, what with the discrepancy in numbers…’

He trails off, frowning pensively. The nagging sensation in his gut is getting harder to ignore and his mood, briefly improved by the consumption of breakfast, is plunging again. Sherlock scratches at his arm distractedly. 

‘Think, think, think,’ he chants. ‘Block it out, block it out.’

He can’t though, he just can’t. His brain might be exceptional, but it’s not good enough to disguise the undeniable cocaine cravings his body is forcing him to submit to.

‘Hateful,’ Sherlock spits the word out to his reflection. ‘Can’t I just vomit a bit and be done with it? I should have chosen heroin.’

No, you can’t, his body mocks him. You know the rules, Sherlock. It won’t be as easy as that.

‘But I need it to be,’ Sherlock moans. ‘I can’t deal with this.’

His brain rebels at the use of the word ‘can’t’ in reference to himself, and he snaps himself out of it. The _Mary Celeste_. Surely he can solve that one. He could have done it years ago if he’d actually cared about it enough. He forces his eyes back to the website he has open and stares blankly at the stupid photograph of a stupid ship floating on some stupid water before it set sail with its stupid captain and his stupid family and crew and met its stupid fate.

Sherlock can’t take it anymore. He grabs something to eat from the little stash he’s developing on the desk and shoves it into his mouth, not caring enough to actually check what it is or whether it is edible in the state he has been keeping it. The force and speed with which he chews nearly chokes him, but he keeps going because there’s nothing else left to do.

Once he’s done eating, and he doesn’t know how long he eats for, just that it’s not enough, not enough, not enough, he pulls up one of the legs of his trousers – which one? Who cares which one? – and starts scratching, scratching, scratching. It’s dull and repetitive and he would hate himself for doing it if he could bring himself to even register what’s going on, but maybe it will take away the drumming in his head and his chest and his abdomen. Maybe if he does this he can release the poison and finally, finally, finally his brain can work again. He needs a case, any case, he’d deal with a missing budgerigar right now if someone asked him to, just give him a case, give him a puzzle, give him a brain to solve a puzzle with, give him cocaine, give him cocaine, give him cocaine no no no not cocaine anything but cocaine, give me a case, give me a case, I need it, I need it, no I don’t need cocaine I need a case, give me a budgie, give me a sodding ship with a missing captain and crew but first give me a brain to figure it out and then give me cocaine, cocaine, cocaine, my mesolimbic pathway is playing up, cocaine, give me a brain, I mean cocaine, I’m going mad, mad, mad, I need it, I need it, I need I need I need...

Sherlock staggers towards his bed and falls asleep instantly, exhausted.

***

John misses Sherlock, misses him like anything. But more than that, he worries about him, and because of that, he can’t decide whether this absence is better or worse than Sherlock’s rather prolonged absence of not so long ago. It’s better, obviously, because he knows that Sherlock is alive and it’s worse, because you don’t worry about someone who’s dead.

Sherlock has been gone for two weeks, and John has not seen hide nor hair of him. He’s surprised, actually, because he didn’t think Sherlock would manage to stay away. Half of him, maybe more than half, had been expecting his friend to come bounding up the stairs the day after he’d left proclaiming that detoxing was boring and withdrawal symptoms were bound to be beyond dull so he’d just be staying here as he was, thank you very much, and if John didn’t like it then he could jolly well leave.

It’s actually a rather sobering thought when John realises about how little faith he had in Sherlock. He is, of course, assuming that Sherlock hasn’t just locked himself away in some grotty hotel room doing line after line of cocaine, or else he isn’t just running around London like Tigger on speed, sticking his nose into every crime scene he can find, annoying every single officer in the Met (and probably those in the City of London Police as well, just for good measure) and not sleeping at all.

 _No_ , John thinks, chuckling to himself. _If he was doing that, Lestrade would have broken the front door down by now trying to get him home._

If he’s honest with himself, he also doubts that Sherlock can really just be on a drug binge. Mycroft must be watching. John hasn’t contacted him but that there’s no way that man doesn’t know.

For all John’s certainty that Sherlock must be doing the right thing, he has to be, he’s worried. No-one can just come off a hard drug like cocaine and expect everything to be okay, unless you’re Sherlock Holmes of course, but by now even the man himself will have realised that all will not be plain sailing. He can’t help but voice his concerns, not to Mrs Hudson, who doesn’t need to know about all this because she’ll only flap and fuss, but to Lestrade, who comes over in search of Sherlock and finds instead a rather irritable doctor with a frown that looks like it’s been etched onto his forehead.

‘I mean, what if he’s really ill?’ John would be fretting if he wasn’t too damn British to let himself. 

Lestrade is perched on the edge of the sofa with a folder across his lap, looking bemused. He’d only wanted to ask Sherlock’s advice about a particularly puzzling note they’d found at the scene of an armed robbery three days earlier, but instead found himself acting as an Agony Aunt for John. He snorts a little at the idea before remembering what John is talking about and sobering up.

‘Well, maybe he’s checked himself into rehab or something?’ Lestrade suggests. He’s not really worried. Two weeks isn’t really that long for Sherlock to go MIA in the grand scheme of things. He’s seen worse.

‘Sherlock?’ John looks incredibly sceptical. Lestrade wonders if he’s been taking lessons in demeaning facial expressions from Sherlock. ‘I can’t see that, can you?’

‘No,’ says Lestrade hurriedly, because this is evidently the answer that is expected of him. ‘I really don’t know, John, I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘And he hasn’t texted you at all?’ John demands for the fifth time.

‘Not a word,’ Lestrade shakes his head. ‘I was beginning to wonder, actually. I thought something might have happened. That’s partially why I popped round today. Also, of course, there’s the fact that my team is so incompetent we have to ask for Sherlock’s help for every little thing.’

John doesn’t laugh. This has Lestrade worried.

‘Something has happened,’ John insists. ‘I sent Sherlock away and told him not to contact me until he’s clean, and now I don’t know what he’s up to or if he’s okay. And what if something happens to him?’

‘You worry too much,’ Lestrade stands up to leave and claps John on the shoulder in a gesture of manly affection because they’re British, and therefore they can’t hug. ‘Sherlock will be fine, John. He’s probably staying with that terrifying brother of his and driving him absolutely crazy instead of us.’

‘He wouldn’t go to Mycroft for help,’ John is sure about this. ‘Hang on, you know Mycroft?’

‘Of course I know Mycroft,’ Lestrade waves his hand around as if it were never in doubt. ‘I’d better be off now, John. Try not to worry. He’ll be home before you know it and you’ll be wishing the bugger would just give you a minute’s peace.’

‘Seems unlikely,’ says John. Lestrade doesn’t know quite which part of his sentence John is referring to, or in what context.

***

Two weeks, three days, five hours and 65 minutes Sherlock has been sat in this hotel room. Hang on, that must be six hours and five minutes. Well, six minutes now.

‘Urgh,’ Sherlock growls in frustration. ‘I cannot deal with psychomotor retardation now! Why must I be lumbered with all the ridiculously tedious symptoms, it’s enough to drive a man mad.’

He’s beginning to think that working on the puzzle of The Hum was perhaps not the best choice he could have made, seeing as the phenomenon itself seems to have decided to take up residence in Sherlock’s own head.

‘But you’re not found anywhere in Greater London,’ Sherlock protests out loud. ‘Not even in the Home Counties area. Go back to where you came from!’

Now he is talking to unexplained phenomena which may or may not actually exist, he hasn’t decided yet. Fantastic.

Two weeks, four days, four hours and 13 minutes since his last hit. He’s doing well. He’s doing very well. Granted, he’s still irritable, almost constantly hungry and equally likely to fall asleep at his desk without a moment’s notice as he is to toss and turn all night, unable to get a wink of sleep, but he hasn’t touched anything remotely pharmaceutical, let alone anything one might call recreational. Not even painkillers. He is, all things considered, proud of himself. He hopes John will be too.

John. He misses John. It’s not like when he was away before, because this time he knows John will be worrying about him, but a John who is worried about him is better than a John who is grieving for him. This is for John. So John doesn’t have to grieve again.

_This is for you, John._

Sherlock is still craving cocaine, no doubt about that, he just has it under better control than he did a week or two ago. It was beyond idiotic of him, to underestimate how dependent his body had become. How dependent his body still is, in many ways, only now his body is listening to him. Sherlock is used to having absolute control over his body. He could tell his body to jump, and his body wouldn’t even have to ask how high because it would already be doing it, precise to within the millimetre. Cocaine, apparently, doesn’t play by those rules, so Sherlock has had to rewrite the rules of his body. It’s worked. Mostly.

The problem is that telling his body, telling it over and over that it doesn’t need cocaine, won’t get cocaine, doesn’t need cocaine, telling it this doesn’t actually make it true. He can make his body believe it, but there’s still the little voice that whispers in the dark. You know you want me, it says. I’m the devil on your shoulder and in your brain, and you know you want me. Sherlock can shut this voice up now. He just feeds it more bananas and thinks about the Voynich Manuscript or the murder of Elizabeth Short, aka Black Dahlia, to drown it out.

Despite the food he’s eating, he’s not putting on weight. The devil in his brain is devouring everything he has to throw at it, and yet he’s still there. Sherlock could try poisoning him, but to the devil poison is nectar, sweet, soothing and delicious, and he’s not willing to give in. He never gives in.

Last night was a bad one, with little sleep and absolutely no rest, because the devil followed him into his dreams. Sherlock knows how you get rid of a devil, but unfortunately his own personal choice of angel is across the city and doesn’t want to see him until he’s clean.

‘But aren’t I clean?’ Sherlock questions his reflection. ‘John said he wanted me through withdrawal, and I am. I may not be completely better, but I’m through the worst and I didn’t cave once. He said not 48 hours, and this has decidedly not been 48 hours. 48 years, more likely.’

His reflection looks at him sternly. _Don’t exaggerate, Sherlock,_ it says. The voice is Mycroft’s.

If Sherlock closes his eyes, he can see the devil peering out from behind one of his ears. The left one. _Come on, Sherlock,_ he hisses. _Time to play. You know you want to. Your angel isn’t here to stop me._

‘I’m going to stop you,’ Sherlock tells Mephistopheles firmly. He’s Sherlock’s devil, so of course he’s Mephistopheles. Only the most outlandishly named of demons is appropriate.

 _No you’re not_ , whispers the nasty little voice in his ear. _Can’t do it without John, can you? Can’t cope on your own._

‘Of course I can,’ Sherlock scoffs. ‘I don’t need anyone. Look at me, doing it on my own. I’m coping. I’m more than coping. I’ve solved four murders while I’ve been locked away in here. I’ve also learnt the fundamentals of two new Chinese writing methods, sorted out what happened to the _Mary Celeste_ and come up with another five theories on exactly what happened to John F Kennedy. The Voynich Manuscript, however, is defeating me. But that’s only because you’re distracting me. Once I’m free of you, I’ll be much more efficient.’

 _Ah_ , croons Mephistopheles, _but will you ever be?_

‘Of course I will,’ Sherlock is cross now. ‘I can do anything I want. I’m proving it now.’

 _But you haven’t escaped yet,_ the voice taunts him. _Are you sure you don’t want to admit defeat? Or at the very least, admit that you’re weak and that you need help?_

‘Never,’ says Sherlock fiercely.

 _Perhaps you don’t need help, Sherlock,_ this silky smooth voice is not Mephistopheles, but it’s no less familiar. Mycroft is back. _But maybe you’d like some. John will be happy to see you, won’t he? You know he will. He’s a doctor, he’s realistic, and he’s not expecting you to stay away for months and months, is he now?_

Pride is the only thing that keeps Sherlock in his hotel room until morning.

***

Of course, John’s at work. It’s never that simple. Sherlock would be disappointed if it was. Mrs Hudson’s home, though, so he has a cup of tea and avoids her questions about where he’s been while he waits for John.

It’s just his luck that John is on the night shift. After he checked out of his hotel this morning, and paid an entirely extortionate fee for such a shoddy establishment, he traipsed the streets of London for hours, not wanting to have to wait in Baker Street for John. It was nice to see London again. He hasn’t seen it for over two weeks, and in that time new crimes have been plotted, carried out, badly disguised, discovered and some have remained hidden, waiting for him. It’s exciting. London is ready for him again.

‘It’s been awfully quiet without you, Sherlock,’ Mrs Hudson is saying. Sherlock forces himself to listen. He can’t be rude to Mrs Hudson, not today. Today’s a day for forgiveness, if John will let it be so. ‘John hasn’t been his usual self. You really shouldn’t leave him behind when you go off on your little jaunts,’ she suddenly looks at him severely over the top of her glasses. ‘I think it reminds him of, you know…’

‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson,’ he interrupts smoothly, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure John coped just admirably in my absence.’

Mrs Hudson gives him the look of mothers and fussy old ladies the world over who think they know better than you do. Sherlock despairs.

‘When will John be back?’ Sherlock asks, snagging another biscuit off the plate. His appetite is still undiminished. Mrs Hudson looks on approvingly. 

‘I don’t know, dear,’ Mrs Hudson is rummaging happily in the cupboard for more sustenance for Sherlock. It’s pleasing her no end to actually see him eat, Sherlock knows. At least it’s keeping someone happy. ‘I’m not your housekeeper, after all. You boys would do well to remember that!’

‘I’ll tell John,’ Sherlock says absentmindedly, before pressing his hand to his stomach in alarm. That particular sensation is new, and not entirely welcome.

‘Are you alright, dear?’ Mrs Hudson frowns. She peers closely at him and holds a hand up to his forehead, despite his feeble protestations. ‘You don’t look at all well, Sherlock Holmes. Have you been eating?’

 _More than you know_ , Sherlock thinks bitterly. _Maybe I’ve just eaten too much. I’m not really au fait with that particular feeling._

‘You’re very pale,’ Mrs Hudson is fussing again. Sherlock hates it. He just wanted to see John. John, John, John. John would know what was wrong with him. ‘Where did you last sleep, Sherlock? Sherlock?’

That’ll be it. Sherlock didn’t sleep last night, or the night before. He’s just tired. That will explain the pounding in his hand and the churning in his stomach. Clearly, tonight is going to be an out-like-a-light sort of an evening. He can’t say he’s not relieved.

‘You really don’t look well,’ Mrs Hudson frowns. ‘Have you been keeping warm while you’ve been off gallivanting who-knows-where? Do you think you could have caught a chill?’

‘I’m just tired,’ he says, a touch condescendingly. At least, that’s what he’s aiming for. He’s not even sure that what comes out of his mouth is English. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson has busied herself with the kettle again and so her back turned and she’s distracted.

‘What was that, dear?’ she asks vaguely, reaching for the teabags.

‘I’m tired,’ Sherlock speaks slowly and clearly, enunciating every syllable. Damn psychomotor retardation again. ‘In fact, I think I’ll go upstairs and wait for John there, Mrs Hudson. Don’t want to fall asleep in your kitchen.’

It takes him far longer than it should have done to get those two simple sentences out. Sherlock is shaken, but he doesn’t let on.

‘As you wish, lovey,’ Mrs Hudson is unfazed. For once, Sherlock is glad of someone else’s lack of observational abilities as he rises and makes to leave. His legs feel odd. ‘I’ll bring you up a pot of tea, shall I? Just in case you want some more later. I shan’t be a moment. You go on up.’

***

John is taking a quick breather when the ‘OD’ shout goes up. He’s close and he’s not with a patient right this second so he hurries over to intercept the paramedics as they rush in with their trolley. The patient on it is clearly fitting and he grimaces. Another puking, shaking junkie with more money to throw away than common sense.

He gets close enough to catch sight of a mop of dark, curly hair and his heart clenches. No.

‘Oh no, Sherlock,’ he whispers frantically. ‘No, no, no. Don’t do this to me.’

He quickly pulls himself together, thinking rapidly. If he lets on that this is Sherlock, that this is someone that he knows, he’ll be dragged away and not allowed to treat him. Eventually someone will recognise Sherlock of course, and everyone knows that John is Sherlock’s friend, but right now he’s fitting and there’s God knows what all over his face and clothes so that John could almost pretend it isn’t Sherlock if he wanted to. 

He squashes any feelings of professional guilt by telling himself that it’s not like his competence will be affected by treating his best friend – holding in the intestines of some young kid barely old enough to buy you a drink in the pub, who not two hours ago you were showing a more efficient method of cleaning his rifle, has got to be worse than this, especially when that kid only has one leg and half a face. But this is Sherlock…

 _No_ , John tells himself firmly. _Not worse than Afghanistan. Not worse than Afghanistan._

‘What’ve we got?’ he calls briskly, hurrying up to the paramedics and grabbing hold of the trolley to help them into Resus. He looks down into Sherlock’s eyes and sees nothing there. His heart spasms.

‘Male, approximately 30 years old– ’

 _35_ , thinks John savagely. _He’s just a skinny, sickly bastard._

‘ –suspected overdose, found by his landlady approximately 15 minutes ago. He’s had diazepam– ’

At this, John stops listening. That’s all he needs to know. Sherlock’s eyes are rolling and he’s conscious whether he knows it or not. John will get him through this. He has to. Sherlock has snapped and OD’d and if he dies because John tried to get him to quit then it will be all John’s fault…

‘Doctor Watson!’

How will he ever forgive himself?

‘Doctor Watson!’

Right. Sort out Sherlock. No, sort out the patient. You can deal with your own guilt later, Doctor Watson, just keep this damn patient alive, or his flatmate will probably shoot you for your troubles.

‘He’s going to be sick!’ one of the nurses calls out, grabbing a bucket from the stand.

‘Roll him over,’ John snaps at the other two nurses standing by the bed. ‘I’ve got his head. Come on, Sherlock, over you go,’ he murmurs, too quietly for the others to hear. ‘I’ve got you. I’m here. It’s okay. You’re going to be alright, Sherlock, I’m here.’

Sherlock vomits. He vomits and vomits and vomits. When he’s done, he’s stopped fitting quite so violently. His skinny limbs twitch a few more times and then he lies still.

‘Alright,’ John says reassuringly. ‘Alright. Come on, lie back. That’s it. Well done. Good lad.’

Sherlock’s eyes are still glazed. For all he knows, John could be anyone. There’s a bitter taste in John’s mouth.

‘That must have got rid of most of it,’ one of the nurses says dryly, peering with distaste into the bucket.

‘Depends how long ago he took it,’ John replies grimly, letting go of Sherlock’s head somewhat reluctantly, as if by holding on he can keep Sherlock anchored here and stop him from drifting away. ‘He will have snorted it, and we don’t know how much he took or how much will have managed to get into the bloodstream by now.’

‘Right,’ says the nurse. She’s young, and she hasn’t had a chance to get used to the delights of a fully stretched A&E department just yet. ‘I’ll just go and get rid of this, shall I?’

She hurries off. One of the other nurses has also left, to attend to another patient, and the other busies herself around Sherlock’s bed, pottering to and fro. John is still standing motionless at Sherlock’s head, his hands clenched into fists at his side. They’re clenched so tight he’s not sure they’ll unfurl again without surgical intervention. His heart is pounding.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes snap into focus and immediately find John’s face. John, who is already doing a fair imitation of a statue, freezes. There is recognition in Sherlock’s eyes and John allows himself to feel relief at that. At least his friend’s not so off his face that he doesn’t recognise him. Sherlock’s eyes next flicker to the nurse who is bustling around him, seemingly doing nothing at all. John knows that he won’t say anything with her here. He knows the rules.

Right on cue, the nurse looks up.

‘Saline, doctor?’ she asks. ‘Better rehydrate the patient, hadn’t we?’

As she leaves, John could swear he sees her wink at him, but he blinks and she is gone.

He can’t look down at Sherlock, he just can’t. He’s frightened of what he’ll see, but perhaps more frightened of what won’t be there.

Sherlock grabs hold of John’s hand urgently, refusing to let go. He tugs on John’s arm, hard, until John looks down. Sherlock looks pleadingly up into John’s eyes. Despite the seizure, his grip is like iron.

‘I didn’t take anything, John,’ he croaks out. ‘I didn’t.’

***

‘You expect me to believe that?’ John chokes out. ‘Seizures aren’t exactly a usual response to cocaine withdrawal, you know.’

‘Of course I do,’ Sherlock cannot manage his usual acerbic tone with his throat as raw as sandpaper. ‘But I’ve never really been one to do things the conventional way, have I?’

‘This isn’t a joke, Sherlock!’ John snaps. ‘You could have died. You could have choked on your own vomit and suffocated. How much did you take, and what were you thinking? If Mrs Hudson hadn’t– ’ he cuts off abruptly. ‘What were you doing at home?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘I told you I didn’t want to see you. Have you been sneaking in there while I’ve been at work, you git?’

It’s not like John can actually ban Sherlock from his own home, but the thought of Sherlock waiting until he leaves to go to the hospital and then slipping in to see Mrs Hudson, chat to the skull…

‘Before tonight I hadn’t been to Baker Street since I last saw you,’ Sherlock’s eyes are still pleading. John’s only seen him like this once before, and that wasn’t a happy occasion either. ‘And I’ve haven’t touched a milligram. I’ve been in a hotel on the other side of London. You have to believe me, John.’

‘What were you doing tonight, then?’ John frowns. He’s tired and confused and emotional and he can’t deal with this right now.

Sherlock bites his lip. It looks painful but he doesn’t wince.

‘I wanted to see you,’ he admits slowly. He frowns as John opens his mouth to interrupt, and John backs down. ‘Just hear me out. Please.’

Sherlock never says please. John nods once. They’re still holding hands.

‘I was lonely,’ Sherlock says quietly. ‘I locked myself in my hotel room for two weeks to make sure I wasn’t tempted, and it was just me and Mephistopheles– ’ John frowns. ‘ –and I was going mad. I know you said I had to be completely clean and through withdrawal, and I know I’m not through yet but I’m so much better than I was. I’ve been eating and eating and sleeping and sleeping and then not sleeping at all and it’s been hell, but I’m doing it. And I haven’t been using, John, really I haven’t. You see, the day after I left Baker Street I went out and bought a load of syringes and vials.’

John flinches. He can’t help it. Sherlock doesn’t mean, he can’t mean…

‘I haven’t been injecting, don’t worry,’ Sherlock hurries on, as much as he can with a mouth that feels like its full of foul tasting sawdust, a throat like the rough edge of a saw and a brain made of cotton wool. ‘I got them for you, so that you’d believe me. I’ve been taking blood samples every day and storing them in the mini fridge so that you can test them if you want. They’ll be clean. I’m clean. You can look and see.’

Sherlock indicates the insides of his elbows feebly and begins trying to wriggle one of his sleeves up singlehandedly.

‘I’ll do it,’ John says quietly, at last letting go of Sherlock’s hand and moving round the bed.

There are track marks and puncture wounds dotted all over both of Sherlock’s arms. These must have thrown the paramedics a bit. No wonder they assumed it was an overdose. John did the same thing, and he hadn’t even seen the marks. He wonders briefly if the paramedics mentioned this in their handover. If they did, he wasn’t listening. He was too focused on stopping his best friend from dying.

Sherlock is watching wordlessly from the bed. He looks terrible.

‘Do you see?’ he asks eventually. His voice is horribly raspy.

‘Do you want a drink?’ John offers, reaching over for a plastic tumbler of water. ‘Slowly now. Not too much. Little sips.’

The nurse is taking an awful long time fetching the saline.

Sherlock drinks a little before John takes the water away. Sherlock looks up at John.

‘Yes, I see,’ John says quietly. ‘When was the last time you had a hit?’

‘Two weeks, five days and… what time is it?’ Sherlock answers promptly. His voice is still wrecked but the water has helped a little.

‘Okay, okay,’ John says hastily. ‘It doesn’t matter. I get the picture.’

‘Take a blood sample now,’ Sherlock encourages him, sticking his arm out as best as he can manage while as weak as a kitten. It sort of flops helplessly to one side. John doesn’t giggle. ‘I’ll prove it to you, go on.’

‘It’s alright, Sherlock,’ John rests his hand on the top of Sherlock’s head. He doesn’t know why, but it seems the right thing to do. From his reaction, Sherlock seems to think so too. ‘I believe you, don’t worry. I trust you.’

‘You do?’ Sherlock blinks.

‘Of course I believe you,’ John says. ‘You don’t exactly look like you’ve just had a hit now that I can see you properly. It was just the obvious assumption.’

It’s true. Frantic though they are, Sherlock’s eyes are calm in a way that eyes generally aren’t when their owner has just had a hit.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Sherlock frowns disapprovingly. John doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry with relief – Sherlock’s why-am-I-destined-to-be-forever-burdened-with-idiots look is back. Sherlock should put a patent on it.

***

Sherlock is admitted overnight. John insists on it.

‘If you leave now it will be against medical advice,’ he says severely. Sherlock sits meekly in his bed in Resus and says nothing. ‘So if you were to want to leave you’d have to sign a DAMA before I’d let you go, and unfortunately someone altered the filing system yesterday and I have not got a clue where the new home for the DAMAs is. Do you see?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock is feeling suitably chastised, but he knows John isn’t really telling him off, he’s just turned slightly commanding officer-y. Anyway, it’s something of a relief to let someone else deal with everything right now. He’s not at his finest, mentally speaking. And he’s exhausted. He just wants to sleep and he doesn’t much care where. Besides, he might have another seizure.

‘I’m thinking about nabbing a load of DAMAs,’ John says conversationally as he helps the porter to wheel Sherlock’s bed into the lift. ‘Once I’ve found them, you understand. I was thinking that I could get you to sign one whenever you’re about to do something particularly idiotic like, I don’t know, running across the rooftops of London with a line of stiches in your side, so that when you pull them all out and bleed all over the place, I can whip out the form and show everyone that it’s not my bloody fault that you’ve got yourself into that state.’

‘You want me to sign to verify that my so-called idiocy when perhaps not at my physical peak is not your fault?’ Sherlock checks. Damn, but he’s tired.

‘Exactly,’ John looks pleased with his plan. ‘Good idea, don’t you think?’

‘Hmm,’ says Sherlock.

There’s a pinging noise and the lift arrives at its destined floor. The porter is doing an admirable job of completely ignoring the rather strange conversation going on around him.

John only stays for as long as it takes to get Sherlock settled on the ward.

‘I shouldn’t be here at all,’ he says, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve still got hours to go. You sleep, and I’ll come and check on you in the morning.’

‘You finish at eight?’ Sherlock asks.

‘Don’t remind me,’ John groans. ’12 hour shifts. Whoever’s brainchild that was should be shot.’

‘Mycroft could deal with it,’ offers Sherlock. He’s fighting to stay awake. The drugs and the seizure and the withdrawal seem to be having a unique effect on his ability to keep his eyes open and in focus.

‘Go to sleep, Sherlock,’ John is only ever properly observant when it concerns Sherlock. How annoying. ‘And don’t you even think about moving from this bed until I’m back.’

‘Go and do your doctoring, doctor,’ Sherlock mumbles. ‘I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’

As he promises, John is back several hours later. Sherlock is feeling much more refreshed. John needs a shave and a cooked breakfast.

‘Sleep well?’ John asks wearily, seeing that Sherlock is sitting up in bed expectantly as he approaches. There’s a tray of food on his lap. John snags a slice of toast and sinks down thankfully in the chair by the bed.

‘Very well,’ Sherlock tips his head in acknowledgement. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

‘Tell me,’ John says at last.

So Sherlock does. He starts from yesterday and works backwards, talking about his overconfidence and subsequent struggles in the hotel room, how he ate ravenously and how his sleeping patterns changed direction violently with little warning. He tells John about his horrendous cravings and how he couldn’t just block them out like he’s always been able to, and he tells him about all the little puzzles and not-so-little puzzles that he looked up online, just to keep his brain busy. John smiles fondly at this point. Sherlock doesn’t need to tell him about leaving Baker Street, because John was there for that bit, but he lets his friend know from the look in his eyes that he gets why John did it. Sherlock couldn’t watch John poison himself, either.

At this point, Sherlock pauses. John knows that he was taking cocaine while he was back at Baker Street. He might have suspicions regarding how much and how often he was indulging, but nothing concrete. Sherlock has to tell him.

‘I wasn’t using when I got back,’ Sherlock says quietly. John, as always, stiffens slightly at any mention of Sherlock’s return, but he says nothing. Perhaps he appreciates how hard this is for his friend. ‘But there was nothing to do, nothing to think about. People don’t want me to solve their cases anymore and the Met want nothing to do with me and my brain was screaming. I needed stimulation. I didn’t know what else to do. It was just meant to be a quick fix every now and again, but it got rather out of hand. I was taking it nearly every day in the end but I didn’t realise I was dependent. I didn’t mean it.’

‘Okay,’ John says calmingly. ‘Okay. It’s okay.’

Suddenly, Sherlock’s brain spasms slightly. Mephistopheles swims into view on the horizon. Sherlock’s stomach clenches.

‘John,’ he gasps. ‘I want… I want it so badly. It won’t, it won’t…’

John is on his feet in an instant, but he’s still calm. Sherlock peers at him desperately. He needs control of his body back. He needs it now.

‘It’s alright, Sherlock,’ John soothes him with a reassuring hand up and down his back. Up and down, up and down, up and down. ‘It’s going to take weeks, you know that. But you’ve done so, so well. Amazingly, in fact. You’ve shown that you can do it. I’m so proud of you.’

And there they are, the words Sherlock never knew he was craving his whole life, craving them more than puzzles and more than cocaine.

‘Shall we go home?’ John is smiling gently.

‘Home?’ Sherlock repeats like an idiot. He shakes his head at himself.

‘Yes, you fool, home,’ John says. ‘Baker Street. Come on, I managed to scrounge you some fresh pants.’


End file.
